I was at the service when Sarah was planning to make her confession. As was customary, she had left the room while the bishop discussed the “charges.” I thought it was odd when Bishop Dan discussed other things besides the confession Sarah was prepared to make. He was concerned about her job as a landscaper because he thought it was not a good idea for her to work with men outside the community, “especially because they tend to take their shirts off, which doesn't make it a good place for an Amish woman to work.”
He suggested that Sarah didn't need to make a public confession for smoking if she was willing to give up her job. The bishop sent the deacon around to collect all the expected yeses, and I said my yes because I didn't think I had any other choice.
When Sarah was brought into the living room, she was asked to sit before the bishop. He explained the terms to her. Sarah sat with a straight back, looking right at the bishop. Normally the repentant person was expected to look down in deference to the bishop. When he was done, he waited. Sarah straightened her back even more, if that was possible, and said, “I like my job, and I'd like to keep it.”
Bishop Dan shuffled his feet and said, “Well . . . ahhh . . .” It was clear he had not been prepared for this response, so he had no idea how to proceed. “Okay, well, ah, I guess you need to take your seat, then,” he said.
So Sarah had openly defied the bishop, even though, to my knowledge, she had never openly defied Datt. And then, ironically, what the bishop had warned would happen, did. Sarah became involved with one of the men she worked with, who got her pregnant, and then when he started physically abusing her, she broke off the relationship. Now she had a child to raise, and she had only Mem and Datt's house from which to do it—unless she left the Amish, which is what she finally did when her son was six years old.
Sarah's husband, John, sat next to Sarah. John also used to be Amish, though he had already left the Amish by the time they met. In fact, Sarah did what I vowed I would never do, even when I was still Amish—she married her second cousin. Our mother was a first cousin to John's mother. When I first found out that they were related, I laughed and said, “Sarah, you had the whole world open to you, and you came back and married your second cousin?” I thought she would laugh with me, but she didn't. I have learned not to talk about the issue at all anymore because of her sensitivity to it. She was the third of three of my siblings to marry a second cousin—Joe and Emma were second cousins, and so were Susan and Bill.
Susan sat next to John, with Bill next to her. Simon, the tallest in the family, sat next to Bill. He resembled Datt with his partially bald head and his large Roman nose, though he had Mem's blue eyes, and his beard had some red in it. Growing up, Simon seemed the most uncomplicated presence of all in the family. He expressed himself simply, and when conflict arose, he just disappeared. Years later I recognized that behavior, described in psychological terms as that of “a lost child.” He did struggle, repeatedly, with Joe, but Mem always took Joe's side. When Simon was about eight years old and Joe was sixteen, it was their job to do chores each night. Almost every night, Simon would come in from the barn, crying and saying that Joe was being mean to him. Mem would tell him to go out and do what Joe said, and maybe he would stop hurting him. Simon would cry helplessly and plead with Mem, but she would insist he go back out to help with the chores. I wondered at the time what was going on in the barn. I thought about hiding there to find out, but I was too afraid of the consequences if Joe discovered me.
Because I no longer understood much of the Amish language, I had not been paying much attention to John Henry, my cousin, who was preaching the first sermon of the funeral. He had the physical characteristics of my mother's side of the family, with the bright red, almost orange, curly hair that stood out on the sides.
John Henry had all the mannerisms of a typical Amish preacher. When he first got up, he cleared his throat and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. He started talking slowly, clearing his throat and looking at the floor in front of him often. After several sentences, he looked up and around the room, and then he started pacing the floor. As he did so, his voice raised a bit, into a rhythm that was a sing-song.
Behind our bench sat our son Tim, my nieces and nephews, and my uncles, aunts, and cousins on Mem's side of the family.
There was a wide aisle in front of us, with the rest of the four hundred attendees facing us. Sam Kettie sat across from me. She had been married to Datt's brother Sam, and together they had fifteen children. Some years ago, Sam had died in a farming accident. Kettie had remarried, to a widower with seventeen children. Between the two of them, they had thirty-two children. At the time of their marriage, about half of their children were married and had left home.
Next to Kettie sat Datt's sister Sarah. She and Kettie both were bowing low, with their heads resting in their hands and their elbows resting on their knees. They clearly didn't want to look at us. Aunt Katie sat one row behind Datt's other siblings and their spouses. There was no mistaking those dark, piercing eyes, and the long, hawk nose. When John Henry talked about how it is never too late to come to God, her eyes raked across our bench at those of us dressed in “fancy” clothes. I looked back at her without fear or shame. When she saw me look at her, she quickly turned her head to look back at her lap. The all-powerful Aunt Katie from my childhood was powerless when I faced her as a self-assured adult.
After John Henry preached, Bishop Joe Byler got up to preach. He began with the traditional clearing of his throat, then he too raised his voice and paced the floor. He used tears to add to the fervency of his entreaties that we all be prepared to meet our Maker when our time comes. I preferred to think of Datt, who was the person this funeral service was for. I remembered the few times when Datt had obviously been right in his way of thinking, but had never gotten credit for it. As far as Mem and Joe were concerned, Datt could not be right, and he didn't have anything sensible to say.
One such instance occurred after Joe had been working with a carpenter's crew for several years. His boss, Eli Kauffman, wanted to move his family out of the house they were renting. Eli was a respected member of the community and an ordained minister in our church, as well as being the leader of a good, honest, hardworking carpenter's crew. He and his wife, Clara, wanted to buy a two-acre parcel of land on Forest Road from Mem and Datt, to build a house for their family. They were offering one thousand dollars an acre for the land.
Datt did not want to break up the forty-two-acre parcel he had bought before he and Mem were married. He could be stubborn about certain things, but what he was most stubborn about was parting with the land he was so attached to.
Mem and Joe thought Datt was being selfish. They wanted to sell it to Eli and Clara. They said such things as: “We owe it to them so they can stay in this community.” “What have we done with that land lately?” “We need the money.” “You just can't let go of your land.” “Hanging on to your land is more important to you than having good neighbors.”
Datt, for a change, had rational arguments. He said, “How do I know they aren't going to move to Michigan, like Joe Yoders and all the rest of them? Then they can sell it and we get high people for neighbors.” And he simply said, “It's my land; I can do what I want with it.”
I remember the day Mem and Joe wore Datt down. They were both coming at him with every possible argument. Datt sat on the rocking chair with his arms folded across his chest. He wasn't saying anything.
I had been observing the debate. I was mostly on Mem and Joe's side, partly because none of us ever stuck up for Datt. He was always wrong, after all. Deep down inside, a little voice was telling me that Datt had a point. But I also knew how much we needed the money, and I would have liked Amish neighbors because we had never had any that close before. It would be a short walk to their house through the woods.
Datt sat there, not saying anything. I thought he was being more stubborn than Mem and Joe put together. Then all of a sudden he scrambled to his feet, grabbed his hat,
and made for the door, saying, “Sell the land then! You will anyway, no matter what I say!” He stomped out to the barn. I couldn't believe it. Datt had never given in like that before. Mem and Joe talked about how they thought Datt would change his mind again and not allow them to sell the land. I thought they were right.
We were all wrong. Datt didn't change his mind. I wondered why he had decided to sell the land, but I soon forgot about that when we had new neighbors.
Several short years after they bought the land from Datt, Eli and Clara moved their family to Michigan. Olin and Clara Yoder's son Andrew, and his new wife, Mary, bought it from Eli and Clara. Andrew and Mary sold the place to high people after living there for a year. Datt's predictions had all come true.
FROM THE TIME JOE first got a horse and buggy and started to drive around, he admired other boys' horses, especially the ones with their heads reined up high. Joe reined his horse's head higher than anyone I knew. Datt hated it, so sometimes Joe reined his horse in lower until he was out of sight, then got off the buggy to rein his horse in so high I wondered how the horse could run. Reining the horses' heads was designed to produce better posture. The young boys wanted sharp-looking horses, so they reined their horses in higher than their parents did. However, Joe reined his horse so high, it looked unnatural. It reminded me of someone running or walking while looking up at the sky.
I never knew where Joe got his first glimpse of the horse he wanted, but I do remember how much he wanted that horse. He immediately started campaigning for the money. Because Joe was not yet twenty-one, he had to give the money he earned to Mem and Datt. As usual, Joe easily convinced Mem, but at least this time she didn't try convincing Datt and left that to Joe.
Joe's arguments were faulty but passionate. “This horse is so spirited, I'll never want another horse . . . this is the horse of my dreams . . . I do make most of the money that comes into this family,” and on and on.
Datt's arguments were sound. “What's wrong with the horse you have? We had to sacrifice to buy you the horse you already have, why do we need to buy you another one? How do you know this horse trader is honest? How do you know the horse doesn't have shtumba?”
I didn't know what shtumba was, but Joe said, “Oh, no, I have checked the horse out thoroughly, and I know other Amish boys that have dealt with this trader.” But, he couldn't give any reasons why the horse he already had wasn't good enough.
In the end, Joe bought the horse. When the horse was unloaded and walked around the yard, I knew why Joe had wanted that horse—he was the most beautiful horse I'd ever seen: sorrel, with two white feet on the right side and a big white star on his face. He held his neck up high, as Joe led him around, looking more pleased and smug than I'd ever seen him.
Two days later, Joe did not look pleased or smug. He sat on the couch, facing Datt sitting on his rocking chair in the living room, and admitted that the new horse did have shtumba, which was a cough from fungus in his lungs, caused by eating moldy hay or chewing on moldy wood. There was no cure for it.
Datt started in on his righteous lecture and eventually came around to saying, “You just don't know how good you've got it! If I had a father when I was your age, I would have respected him more than you do me!” And then came the predictable statement from Datt, “If my father hadn't died when I was thirteen . . .” His voice always rose and fell in the same places each time he said, “my father” and “I was.”
“I can't help that!” Joe said loudly, bursting into tears. Then Joe began pointing out all Datt's faults. “It's also not my fault that your mother is the way she is. You always think we wouldn't be poor if your father hadn't died. If you weren't so lazy, maybe we wouldn't be so poor! If you had taught me the right way to do things, maybe I wouldn't have had to learn all on my own. You have never treated us children the way we deserve to be treated! And I hope if I ever get married, I don't treat my wife the way you've treated Mem.” Joe went on and on, crying and spewing. I waited for Datt to pounce on Joe any minute; that would lead to one of their physical fights. Instead, Datt sat on the rocking chair with his arms folded across his chest and his mouth clamped shut. Then I realized it was because Joe was crying that Datt didn't fight. Datt never knew what to do when someone cried, and it somehow shut down his anger. Joe knew this and was using tears to say what he wanted. Until that moment, he had me convinced his tears were real, but now I realized just how good an actor Joe was.
Datt finally got up and walked outside. Joe stopped crying and told Mem he just couldn't help himself. Mem said with a sigh, “I know.”
Joe kept his sorrel horse for less than a year before he moved on to his third one. By the time he got married and moved away from home, he had owned six different horses.
MY THOUGHTS CAME BACK to the funeral as people shuffled into a kneeling position. As we all knelt on the concrete floor, Bishop Joe read a long German prayer. Then everyone stood for a reading from the New Testament. After the reading, people quietly took their seats as the pallbearers moved Datt in his coffin outside the shed and opened it up. Rube's Dave directed the lines of people to file past Datt's coffin for the last viewing. After filing past the coffin, people gathered in the courtyard—the men on one side, the women on the other. He started with the people who had been sitting in the back; then Mem and Datt's relatives filed past the coffin. Finally there were only us children and our spouses and Mem remaining. We left our benches and encircled the coffin. Mem sat next to Datt's head and quietly looked at her husband's body for the last time. They had been married for fifty-one long, difficult years. I can count on one hand the number of times I witnessed a tender moment between the two of them. We all had something in common with her––a tumultuous relationship with the person who lay before us. Yet I could tell Mem felt sad. The tears I shed were for the sadness in the finality of the last good-bye, and the knowledge that for the rest of my life I would never see him or hear his voice again.
The four hundred people all dressed in black, encircling us in the court-yard, supported our grief as we quietly had our last moments with Datt. The courtyard was completely still: not a baby cried, not a bird sang. This moment that my sisters and I had dreaded, in which we thought our reactions would be watched and analyzed by our original community members, was transformed. All those years of judgment fell away, and in its place I felt supported by this community of people who had been there when I was growing up. The differences in the clothes we wore or what we believed didn't matter in that pregnant, quiet moment. Embracing one another in the Amish community was rarely done, but the effect of the support from this group steeped in community and tradition had a power of its own.
David Miller, who had been standing in the sidelines, came forward and closed the coffin. He screwed the lid shut, and then the pallbearers came forward and carried Datt's coffin to the waiting carriage and slid it in. Datt was about to have his last buggy ride. The week before, when he was on morphine and sleeping a great deal, he had related a dream he had in which he was planning to go to church, but there was no room on the buggy for him, so he couldn't go. It was one of the ways he had to let go of this life. He had already attended his final church service.
From those who were around him when he died, I heard descriptions of Datt's peaceful end. We had all hoped and prayed for this when we knew that Datt was leaving us. The grace of a peaceful end to such a tumultuous life as Datt's was truly a miracle. Even though we had varying spiritual views, most people likely agreed that this was a sign of Divine Grace.
THE GRAVEYARD WAS SET UP on a hill above my Uncle Ervin's farm, with a row of pine trees marking the western border. When we walked up the long driveway to the graveyard, I realized the ceremony was almost over. The grave was nearly full as four men shoveled dirt into it. As they mounded the dirt, the Amish chant (much like a Gregorian chant) concluded, and Bishop Joe Byler read a German prayer. People bowed their heads in silence. After those gathered started moving about, Brother Joe pushed Mem in her wheelc
hair down to the little headstone at the edge of the cemetery, where Mem and Datt's stillborn baby was buried.
Rube's Dave walked towards David and me, and my thoughts came back to the present. He said, “You didn't make it on time.”
“No, I underestimated how long it would take for everyone to get here.” I introduced Rube's Dave to David and Tim. Dave's wife came over, and the five of us talked about Datt's funeral, about funerals in general, and about Dave's work as a funeral director in the community. He told me he and his wife had really enjoyed having me come visit them when I was a schoolteacher.
“I enjoyed those visits, too,” I said.
Before Dave and Kate left the graveyard for a much-needed rest, they invited us to come and visit them when we come to Ohio again. I promised that we would.
As we left the graveyard, I looked back and saw the fresh mound of dirt that represented my father's final resting place, there on the outer edge of the cemetery above my uncle's farm. I sent my thoughts to the spirit who used to be Datt, and whispered, “Rest in peace.”
SLEEP DID NOT COME to me for a long time that night. My mind drifted to my lifelong recurring dream, which most people would term a flying dream—but it isn't the high soaring flying of a bird, but more like the flight of a butterfly, light and floating just above the earth, landing lightly, and then taking off for another flight. Of all the feelings of euphoria I have ever experienced in my life, this dream is perhaps the most euphoric of all. I am always disappointed to awake and find I was merely dreaming.
Why I Left the Amish Page 9